


the flare and what remains smouldering

by neraiutsuze



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Argument Aftermath, Episode Related, M/M, episode coda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:22:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29357928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neraiutsuze/pseuds/neraiutsuze
Summary: He’s never trusted himself with anger, not really. He comes by it too honestly.--Martin deals with his feelings in the wake of what had been slowly building for while.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 2
Kudos: 52





	the flare and what remains smouldering

**Author's Note:**

> 154 spoilers, obviously!
> 
> This is basically just me yelling feelings in the episode aftermath, and what Martin was probably feeling when Jon went for his statement. 
> 
> CW swearing, arguments (offscreen, aftermath), blame including self-blame, hints at canon-typical martin's terrible parents.

“Stupid, arrogant…”

Martin’s fuming. Sick to his stomach with it. He feels like he might vibrate right out of his skin with the force of how _furious_ he is.

Furious at Jon, for even suggesting it. Furious at the Eye, for drawing Jon to it so effectively. Furious at the fucking apocalypse, as always, and the constant draining nightmare that compounds with every new facet revealed. Furious at Jon, for his arrogance, excuses. Furious at Jon, for shutting him down like that, for _laughing_. Furious at Jon for not _listening_ , for _giving in_ , for wanting to _abandon him_ for the goddamn Eye when he’d _promised_ \--

He’s standing staring daggers down the dark tunnel where Jon flounced away, hands clenching into fists at his side. He hates this. He hates feeling like a pot that’s boiling over unattended. It’s like there’s some hot, foul-smelling brimstone in his gut that keeps churning out painful, twisting viciousness. He wants to go after Jon - this isn’t _over_ , he doesn’t get to have the last word and have it be _that_ dismissal like Jon’s still his fucking _manager_ \- but he doesn’t want to as well, doesn’t dare move, because under all this roiling fury his chest is a tight, icy knot.

Furious at himself. For acting like his _mother_. For knowing the thing that would hurt Jon most and _going_ for it, too angry to hold back. For sounding like his _father_ , lashing out with accusations that were cruel and unfair, because he was just so _hurt_ and _scared_ —

He’s never trusted himself with anger, not really. He comes by it too honestly. He learned it from his mother for years, and from the vague memories of his father that go with the things she spat about him later. It’s as easy to lean into these days as the fog ever was, but it’s always _been_ there, simmering in his blood. And all he can think now is a painful, tangled mess of _I’ve fucked it up_ and _Jon fucked this up_ and _we fucked this up_ and _this can’t be where we leave this_ and _I don’t want to see that prick right now_ and _I need to fix this_ and _he needs to apologise_ and _I can’t lose him, I love him-_

“Jon?” he calls, the word bursting out of him before he can even try to unravel any of it. It comes out harsh, like he’s still picking a bloody fight, but he can hear the edge of panic running through it when the echoes bounce it back to him. Once they’ve died away, there’s no answer but the silence.

He realises that part of him was hoping, deep down, that Jon would come running back. That he had also stopped, gone through his own regrets. Hoping for the movie moment of them both running to each other and apologising simultaneously, holding each other tightly and driving away all the things they’d just shouted with soft kisses. It’s stupid. It’s always stupid, but especially stupid here. Stupid Martin and his stupid fantasies of the save the world button again, only this time it’s his own damn temper and his stupid boyfriend’s caustic, self-sacrificial—

He starts to call again and his breath hitches before the sound can even echo.

Unbidden, the memory of Jon’s voice, soft and fond, telling him _yes, Martin, you are my reason_ , slips into his head. It feels less like a confession than an accusation.

_You useless ass,_ he thinks to himself. He still feels angry, but it’s banking down into white-hot smoulders, now at the bottom of an awful, hollow sensation in the pit of his belly. _Can’t keep a lid on your own bloody feelings when he most needs an anchor to keep him from doing something idiotic—_

“ _Shit_.”

Jon, the stupid bastard, _his_ stupid bastard, is going to do something idiotic, and it’s going to be his _fault_.

He takes off at a run. That’s stupid too; Jon could have taken _any_ of the ways back up into the city, he _knows_ that, and he could come back down through any of them too - if he _comes_ back down, stupid stupid _stupid_ \- and Martin wouldn’t know where to begin guessing. He finds himself following their route back towards the little safe space Melanie and Georgie have carved out ( _I’ll meet you back in the tunnels_ , he’d said, he’d _better_ -), fighting with himself whether to find a trapdoor and stick his head out of it to look for him or not the whole way. He’s stewing, and that was easier when it was just anger, now it’s anger and guilt and worry all at once, and he doesn’t think he can face the looks on Melanie and Georgie’s faces when he gets back without Jon and has to explain all of _that—_

He’s not too far from the camp when he almost steps on the spider. It darts out in front of him so fast that he yelps, rears back and stumbles. He only doesn’t go crashing to the floor because a slight but deceptively strong arm takes his and steadies him.

“Hello, Martin,” says Annabelle Cane. She pats his arm where she’s holding it, and smiles in a way that bares her fangs. “I thought you could use a little help.”


End file.
